Heat lanced straight up my arm, sudden and sharp. My breath stuttered.
I pulled back too fast, flustered and nearly upset Pampi’s balance. Jaime reacted instantly, one steady hand at her chest, the other bracing her hips.
“Whoa. I’ve got you, princess,” he murmured.
Pampi settled immediately. I stared at his hands. At how easily he controlled the moment. How easily he controlled me.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, glancing up at me.
“Yeah. Yeah. Fine,” I said, probably a little too fast.
Something shifted in his gaze, curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion or even awareness. It lingered just long enough for my heart to do something stupid in my chest then the mask slid back into place.
The inspector finished testing the grip and straightened. “All secure,” he said.
Equipment cleared. One more hurdle crossed. Then a volunteer waved us toward the main competition floor for the handlers’ walkthrough. This was it, the part where the nerves showed.
Without the dogs, handlers flowed onto the rubber-matted course in loose clusters, whispering to coaches, counting steps under their breath, tracing imaginary leash paths through the air with tense fingers.
The massive ballroom stretched wide beneath hotel chandeliers, transformed into a sleek obstacle maze.
Ramps gleamed under spotlights, tunnels nestled between barriers, weave poles standing like sentinels, balance beams elevated on metal frames, scent markers tucked into corners.
The entire thing felt unreal. Controlled chaos under fluorescent lights.
I walked it slowly, methodically, committing angles and distances to memory. Jaime moved beside me, silent and observant. Close enough that our shoulders almost brushed with each turn.
Almost. That’s when it hit me. Something felt wrong. It wasn’t obvious but it just felt a little off. My instincts never failed me before so I decided to trust it. I’d done some homework.
One hurdle near the fourth turn was angled a few degrees too far inward toward the tunnel entrance. Barely noticeable unless you watched how a dog’s momentum would carry through the jump and into the turn.
It wasn’t dangerous, but it was sloppy. And in a course built by professionals, sloppy didn’t happen. I slowed. Jaime didn’t. My wolf surged forward.
It became sharp, alert, and uneasy before my brain caught up. The air felt tilted, wrong in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Jaime,” I murmured. Then I cleared my throat. “I mean, Peter.”
He stopped immediately and turned. “What?”
I tipped my chin subtly. “That hurdle. Before the tunnel.”
He studied it. “What about it?”
“It’s shifted. If Pampi hits it at full speed, her landing angle will be off. She’ll overcorrect and clip the tunnel edge,” I pointed out.
Jaime stepped closer, eyes narrowing. Then his jaw tightened.
“You’re right,” he said.
We approached it casually, like two handlers doing a final mental run. Jaime knelt and brushed his fingers over the support bar. The peg shifted slightly beneath his touch.
It was loose. Not enough to collapse, but it was enough to wobble. It was designed to look accidental.
“Whoever did this didn’t want to hurt a dog,” I murmured. “They wanted a fault.”
Jaime nodded slowly. “Disqualification. Public failure. Public embarrassment.”
A low growl rumbled in my chest before I could stop it.
